


How to Draw a Hypotenuse

by QueSeraAwesome



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boyfriends, Coffee, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, Leather Kink, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Mutually Unrequited, Oral Sex, Pining, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Pre-Threesome, Red vs Blue Secret Santa, Tags to be added for chapter 2, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 00:07:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13178124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueSeraAwesome/pseuds/QueSeraAwesome
Summary: Tucker knows how poly works, okay? Just because someone wants to date your boyfriend doesn't mean they want to date you too. Too bad. Locus is about fifty ridiculous ways of saying “hot as fuck.”Planning Wash’s birthday threesome this year will be no chore. Except for the part where he’s totally head over heels for the guy and Locus isn't interested.*Locus knows how polyamory works. Just because you love the same man doesn't necessarily mean your partner’s partner holds any special affection for you as well.He's not pining over Lavernius Tucker.*Wash really wishes his boyfriends would get their shit together. It's probably better if he lets them figure it out for themselves though.





	How to Draw a Hypotenuse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bizarrebird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bizarrebird/gifts).



> For my Secret Santa, bizarrebird! I hope this satisfies, because she is absolutely the best. Enjoy your luckington, bb!

Lavernius Tucker has never been less jazzed about an impending threesome in his life.

See, thing was, _last_ year he’d barely met Locus. He’d known two things about Locus, 1. Hot 2. Dating Wash. It logically followed that they could team (heh, double team) up to give Wash the fuck of his life for his birthday. He’d been completely and utterly unprepared for how utterly pants-bursting-into-flame hot the guy could be in the sack. Even with Wash between them the whole time, and Locus paying exactly no attention to him whatsoever. Christ, all the guy had to do was speak and Tucker had been utterly ready to go. Too bad the feeling clearly wasn’t mutual (see, Locus paying him exactly zero attention to him during the previously mentioned threesome, he can take a hint).

Which was whatever, Tucker has met lots of hot people who didn’t want to fuck him. He can deal, even when his dick is the worst and just won’t give up hope. But then he’d spent the next year sort of getting to know Locus. Through Wash, and hanging out with Wash and therefore sometimes hanging out with Locus, he’s kind of sorta started to maybe even like the guy.  And that’s where his _real_ problem started.

Because Locus _doesn’t like him_. Like at all. Sometimes he gets these little glimpses of the man under the mask of stoicism. Joking with Grif from the other side of the bar, curled into Wash’s side at the end of movie night. And Locus isn’t like that with him. He stiffens up and pulls back the minute he and Tucker are left alone. Defenses up, face guarded, weird little half-smile he sometimes lets slip locked away. Like he said, Tucker can take a hint. That doesn’t make the crush go away, though. His brain is the worst.

Which sucks, because Tucker thought he was done with the gross pining thing after he and Wash had gotten their shit together, like, what the fuck? He already paid these dues. Someone owes him a refund. But here he is again, pining like a chump after some tall, badass-looking motherfucker with tendencies toward the melodramatic and brooding.

As annoying as the whole Locus situation is, though, Tucker loves Wash a lot. _A lot_ a lot. Wash loves him back. And Wash also loves Locus. So Tucker’s just going to deal with it. He’s not going to screw this up because of his stupid unrequited feelings.

Which is why Tucker is sitting at a Starbucks at ass o’clock on the weekend, waiting for his boyfriend’s boyfriend to show up and wondering why he, of all people, is looking at the impending negotiation of a threesome with the same trepidation as getting a colonoscopy.

It doesn’t stop his heart from skipping a beat when the bell on the door jingles and Locus walks in. Shit, he’s got to be able to play it cooler than this when the dude actually comes over. Easier said than done when he’s hosting an internal argument that sounds a little like this:

Brain: Calm down, dude. Share the blood with everyone else.

Dick: But I like him!

Brain: Give it a rest, dude.

Dick: But we like him!

Brain: But he doesn’t like us back.

Tucker orders his various factions back under control and waves a welcome. Locus waves back in acknowledgement and goes to the front counter to order before heading over. Tucker schools his features into a smile.

“Hey, morn-”

The words catch in his throat as Locus gets closer to the table and he gets a better look at the guy. It’s bad enough he’s got cheekbones that could cut marble and the jawline to match. He really doesn’t have to compound the problem with his intense dark eyes, golden brown skin and thick dark hair pulled back at the nape of his neck. He’s the epitome of tall (6’3, in fact), dark and handsome. Locus isn't quite a mountain of a man, (Tucker has met truly mountainous men and Locus doesn't quite qualify), but that doesn't make him any less climbable. But all that Tucker is used to. He’s had time to build up some defenses to everyday Locus. No, it’s what he’s wearing that catch’s Tucker’s attention.

Lyrics about “sharp dressed men” swim in Tucker’s head as he takes in the way Locus’s biceps bulge in the sleeves of his double breasted jacket. Which, what the fuck? Locus doesn't need a double breasted anything, he doesn't need any help making his chest look any broader or more drool-worthy. Quit while you’re ahead dude, some people eventually have to stand up from this table. Locus begins to idly unbutton his jacket, which draws attention to his….and then there’s… and then...

The fucker’s wearing leather gloves. Black leather gloves, tight black leather gloves that only accentuate how broad his hands are, the flex of his wrists, the strength held in his joints and fingers. And god, his fingers. Tucker could spend all day studying Locus’s hands in those gloves. He gapes like an idiot the entire time it takes Locus to walk over to him . His jacket hangs unbuttoned, but he makes no movement to take it off, instead pulling out a chair.

“Dude, aren’t you ho-- warm?” Tucker asks.

Locus grimaces and takes his seat.

“It’s…. chilly this morning,” he says. “I dislike being cold.”

Tucker absolutely does not stare as Locus tugs on the fingertips of his gloves individually (short, precise little flicks of movement, hands that big should not be that deft fuck) and slides them off. The cashier calls out his name, and Locus goes to retrieve his order, coming back with a plate and a overlarge mug of something. Tucker guiltily pulls his own to-go cup closer to his chest. At least _try_ to look like you’re not ready to run out the door, Tucker. Great job, subconscious. The thought gets wiped away a second later when he sees Locus’s plate.

“You got carrot cake for breakfast?” he asks, not even trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

Locus raises his eyebrows at him in an unimpressed stare that must get all the accountants to drop their panties for him. Or something. Tucker doesn’t actually know what Locus does for  a living, only that he has to act absurdly professional, like, _all the time._

“I like carrot cake,” he replies. He sits across from Tucker, setting the plate and mug down.

“You just don’t seem to be a carrot cake kind of guy.”

More unimpressed eyebrows. “What kind of guy do I seem like?”

“I dunno,” Tucker answers. “Croissant and black coffee?”

“They burn their beans,” Locus retorts, but there’s a hint of a smile around the corners of his eyes. Fuck. Tucker’s so fucked. “Their tea is passable.”

“That’s more like it,” Tucker says, shooting him finger guns. He immediately hates himself for it and curls his hands around his coffee instead. Less awkward, _less_ awkward, c’mon. “So... how’s work?”

Locus frowns at him, wrinkles of confusion warping his scar.

“I thought we were here to discuss mutual birthday plans for our boyfr--”

“We are!” Tucker interrupts. Doesn’t think too hard about how he doesn’t actually want to hear Locus say words like “we” or “our” or “boyfriend” right now. “Just being friendly, dude. What, we can’t small talk?”

Locus blinks at him and the wrinkles smooth out.

“I…. apologize,” he says, clearly abashed. “Work is going well.”

He keeps talking, but Tucker isn’t listening again because Locus is tearing off a corner of his little carrot cake. With, like, his hands. Oh god. Who did Tucker wrong in a past life? He watches with guilty fascination as Locus raises the piece to his lips.

“Aren’t you going to at least use a fork?” Tucker asks, voice strangled as Locus takes a bite.

Locus licks cream cheese frosting off his thumb. The worst part is that he isn’t even doing it on purpose, or to make fun of Tucker at all, he’s just doing it.

“Are we going to talk, or would you like to continue mocking my breakfast?”

He reaches for another bite of cake, and Tucker resolves not to watch, looking frantically around the Starbucks. Don’t think about licking cream cheese frosting off of Locus’s fingers, don’t think about licking anything off of Locus’s fingers, licking anything off of Locus’s anything. He takes a too-large gulp of his drink and forces himself not to choke, swallowing painfully around it.

“Right,” he says. “Wash’s birthday. Yes. Let’s talk birthday.”

“Your text message indicated that you’d like to repeat last year’s threesome,” Locus says, like he’s talking about the weather. He pops another bite of carrot cake in his mouth.

“Right. Threesome,”  Tucker, latching on to perhaps the worst lifeboat of a conversation possible. Even if it is what they’re here supposed to be talking about. “He totally loved that last year, I figured this year we could kick it up a notch.”

Locus nods.

“I agree. Go on.”

Tucker takes a deep breath. He can do this. This is fine. He’s not clutching his coffee cup for moral support. Nope. Super fine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He has to get out of here. Like, immediately. Before he ruins absolutely _everything._

 

*

 

Locus leans on the buzzer to Wash’s apartment until the adjacent speaker crackles to life.

“Use. Your fucking. Key,” Wash’s sleep-thick voice growls out at him.

“I wanted to be certain you were awake,” Locus retorts. “Now wake up. I need you to explain the behaviour of your insufferable boyfriend.”

“Which one?” Wash grumbles, but buzzes him in anyway.

Locus absolutely does not stomp his way upstairs, though it's a near thing. By the time he’s letting himself into Wash’s apartment, Wash is slumped at his kitchen table in only a pair of sleep pants with a cup of coffee . The Keurig in the corner, which Wash has because he’s a godless caffeine junkie with no sense of taste who prefers his coffee “now”, is already gurgling away at a second cup. Locus knows better than to expect that it’s for him.

“Your boyfriend,” he continues, “insists on acting completely inconprehens-”

Wash reaches up and yanks him down by the collar, cutting off Locus’s rant briefly with a good morning kiss. Locus finishes the word he was on before kissing him back.

“Good morning,” he says when Wash releases him. Wash hums in reply. “As I was saying--”

Wash lets him growl and grumble through most of his first coffee cup. About how Tucker had texted him fifteen times about needing to call, and then hung up when they finally managed to find time because “I can’t read you through the phone, dude, let’s do this in person.” Had dragged him to a Starbucks of all places on a Sunday morning and then had the nerve to insult his breakfast choices, as if Locus hadn’t ever heard Tucker himself refer to the six food groups as “pizza, cereal, take-out, Food Network crap, bomb-ass shit your family makes, and white people food.” Wash nods along as his brain warms up and waits for an opening, which he finally gets.

“Why were you two meeting up, anyway?”

“Did I not mention it before?” Locus asks. “Tucker wished to discuss planning your birthday threesome.”

Wash’s eyebrows scrape his hairline in simultaneous surprise and interest.

“He was quite adamant that it must ‘blow last year’s out of the water,’ and then he made that strange onomatopoeia noise he’s so fond of.”

“Any progress?”

“No,” Locus growls. “We spent less than ten minutes discussing options before he practically fled the table.”

“Did you wear those?”

Locus blinks at Wash in confusion. Wash indicates with his coffee cup towards Locus’s hands. Locus blinks down at them.

“The gloves,” Wash says with an air of infinite and amused patience. “Were you wearing those gloves when you went to meet Tucker?”

Locus inspects his hands, trying and failing to see what Wash, and apparently Tucker, had seen. They’re simple gloves. Black leather, fleece lined. Well fitted, tight at the wrists. Seasonal. It was chilly this morning. He’s not the only person in the world to prefer wearing gloves at this time of year.

“I was.”

Wash snorts.

“There’s your answer, then. Tucker’s got a major hand kink already, and you show up in a pair of leather fuck-me gloves, of course he turned tail and ran--”

“These are not fuck-me gloves,” Locus protests, trying and failing to not sound scandalized. “These are perfectly average fall-weather gloves.”

Wash drains his coffee cup and turns to get his second.

“They are absolutely fuck-me gloves,” he tosses over his shoulder, “You’re lucky he ran. The alternative was probably falling out of his chair to suck you off under the table.”

“That-- I--”

Except it’s too late. The image of Lavernius Tucker slipping under the table at the empty cafe, muscling between his knees and going for the fly of his pants is already burned into his mind. Tucker’s pink tongue flicking out to lick his lips in anticipation. The way his dark eyes would laugh up at him as he took him into his mouth, daring him to stay quiet.

He feels as if he’s been hit over the head with a two by four. He shakes it off, struggling to remember what he was saying before. Wash was wrong about… about _something,_ and Locus’d been trying to make a point. He can’t recall. Wash pauses in the act of bringing his second mug to his lips, looking Locus up and down. His eyes narrow.

“You like that,” he says, leaning back against the counter. “You liked the idea of Tucker blowing you under the table.”

Locus attempts to scoff.

“I would never.” He hates a little that his eyes flick to the door, the window, that after all this time he still falls back on old habits so easily, that Wash is no doubt reading those signs on him right now. “I would never do such a thing in public.”

“No, but it’s still hot,” Wash replies. Calm and easy as can be. He sets down the mug on the counter with a quiet click, and that’s when Locus really knows he’s in for it. He can feel it, charging the air between them. Wash’s smile looks like a promise. “Want to know what he would have been thinking about you doing to him?”

“I shouldn’t,” Locus can feel his cheeks burning. He’s burning everywhere, smoldering like he’d swallowed a live coal. Yes, he and Wash have discussed his badly hidden crush on Tucker before- and the apparently clear-as-day affections Tucker has for him in return. But not like this.

Wash is looking at him, gray eyes hooded and hot with desire on his. The sun streams in through the kitchen window at Wash’s back, haloing him in golden light and splashing across his bare chest, outlining the lines of his body, the cuts of his muscle. Illuminating the freckles and scars both sprinkled across his skin. His grin slips into a filthy smirk and Locus knows he’s been caught staring. He knows Wash wants him; but as much as Locus wants Tucker....

“I shouldn’t want to know,” Locus repeats. “I… He’s not my--”

“Tucker would be thrilled if he knew I got you off by talking about him,” Wash retorts. He pushes off the counter, steps forward easily into Locus’s space. Locus wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him close. Wash is warm and firm against him, comforting and arousing and familiar. Wash's lips trail up to brush the shell of Locus’s ear, and Locus shudders in his arms.

“Even if he wasn’t forcefully repressing how bad he wants you. He’d be flattered as hell knowing that thinking about him got you hard.”

Locus nearly bites through his bottom lip.

He's almost dizzy from the rush of arousal and adrenaline in his veins. His heart beats wildly in his chest. They haven’t done anything like what Wash is suggesting before. It seems too close to some line Locus shouldn’t cross, inappropriate. Locus knows just because he wants a thing doesn’t mean he should have it.

“Believe me, I’ve known Tucker for years, and have been with him for three of them.” Wash smoothes a hand up and down his back, his arms squeezing briefly around him. “I wouldn’t if I thought he’d mind.”

Locus swallows. He leans into the rasp of Wash’s cheek against his, the puff puff of breath in his ear. There's no harm in this. He can let himself have this.

“What would he want?” He barely breathes the words.

He can feel Wash’s answering grin in the shift of muscle, the press of a canine against his cheek.

“He’d want you,” Wash’s breath fans across his neck, sending a shudder down his spine, “to say ‘ _Get on your knees_.’”

Wash’s hand on his shoulder presses down, a suggestion really, but Locus is already folding down, sinking down to the floor and under Wash’s sway.

Wash’s hands cup his jaw, the sides of his head, and Locus lets his eyes close. He can feel the hard floor under his knees, but in his mind he can see Tucker kneeling in front of him, can imagine the way he’d look, waiting and wanting him. He leans into the touch of familiar calluses as Wash pets at him, the movement of his hands brushing the sensitive short hairs framing his face and sending tingles shivering along his scalp.

“He’d want to touch you,” Wash murmurs above him, “He’d put his hands on your hips, trying to pull you closer. He can be grabby like that. You’d have to make him be patient, make him wait.” He swipes a thumb over Locus’s bottom lip, pressing into the depression left by Locus’s teeth. Locus forces himself still. The leather of his gloves creaks against his fists from where they rest on his thighs. “Maybe take your time about it. Those big hands of yours unbuckling your belt, getting your pants open, the smell of the leather from your gloves making his mouth water. Make him watch, stroke yourself a few times, and he’d love every second of it. Waiting on his knees for you to let him suck your cock.”

He keeps stroking his fingers through Locus’s hair, tracing the line of his jaw, like his words aren’t breaking Locus to pieces in front of him.

“You’d have to watch him,” Wash says, voice hushed like he’s sharing a secret. “He’d try to suck your fingers into his mouth if you touched him like I’m touching you now.”

Locus groans at the image, falling forward to rest his forehead against Wash’s stomach. Tucker’s lips sucking up and down his thumb, the way his tongue might swirl around the pads of his fingers. The noises he might make with two of Locus’s fingers stuffed in his mouth, lips stretched around the black leather, his eyes half-open and shining with want.

“He wouldn’t want to let you go. You’d have to pull him off…” Wash cards his hands through his hair, and then yanks. Locus arches into it, into the pleasure and  against the strain, and a moan forces its way out from deep in his chest. His eyes flutter open to meet Wash’s, to let him see how good it feels. Wash holds him there, lets him squirm on that delicious tension between pleasure and pain lighting him up before finally relenting. Locus collapses back against him, steadying himself and almost clinging, clutching at his hips.

“Tucker’s not like you. He likes his hair pulled closer to the scalp, he wants to feel it at the roots. You like it closer to the ends.” Wash continues, “but by now, you’d be impatient too, so after he caught his breath, you’d pull him in and let him get his mouth on your cock.”

It’s too much. Locus scrubs his face against the bare skin in front of him, mindlessly mouthing at firm, smooth muscle, the trail of hair below Wash’s navel tickling against his face. His hips grind forward against nothing.  He wants Wash to touch him. He wants to touch Wash. He wants Wash to keep talking.

“He’s really good at it. With his mouth,” Wash’s voice goes hoarse as Locus pants damply against his hip. He can feel the shape of Wash’s cock through the fabric of his sleep pants and rubs his cheek against him in wordless request. Wash gasps, shuddering against him and nods quickly before continuing. Locus fumbles with his waistband. “He’d pick up on what you like real quick. Firm licks right against the base. Circling- Christ, Locus-”

Locus doesn’t reply, too invested in diving as far down Wash’s cock as he can go in the first swallow. He wants to be full of his man, of Wash, of the things he’s saying, of the things Wash gives him. He goes until his gag reflex can take no more without more warm up and pulls off, sucking hard, Wash swearing vehemently above him. The smell of him, still sleep-warm and thick in every breath he takes, blends with the leather-smell of his gloves into an intoxicating mix that makes Locus’s head spin and his cock weep precome until his underwear soaked and chafing against the head.

“He’d- He’d want to feel your hands in his hair. He’d like the way the gloves felt, the way they sometimes caught against his hair, he’d-- fuck, _fuck_ , Locus, _fuck--_ He’d moan around your cock if you pulled his hair with his mouth full, he’d love it so much.”

Locus bobs over his cock, fast as he can make himself go. Too desperate for tricks of tongue or technique, only the wet seal of his mouth sliding up and down silky rigid flesh.

“He wouldn’t let you come,” Wash forces out through clenched teeth. “If he thought you were he’d pull off and beg you to...”  

He trails off, too overwhelmed to continue. Locus glances up his body, taking in his closed eyes and open mouth. He’s beautiful, flushed, losing himself in the pleasure of Locus’s mouth and it makes something in Locus sing. To have been a part of something that made Washington look like that. That he did something to make Wash look at him like he is now, his eyes blinking open to stare down at him in open adoration.

“To fuck him instead,”  Wash gasps out. His body arches into Locus’s touch, hips making little aborted thrusts against his lips. “...fuck, I’m close.”

Locus forces himself as far down as he can again, his tongue stroking as hard and as best he can and that’s it. Wash comes with a quiet noise, shaking under Locus’s hands and pulsing against his tongue. Locus keeps his mouth soft, gentle as he comes down until Wash pulls back and out of his mouth. He gently guides him as Wash stumbles to his own knees in front of him, yanking Locus into a kiss. It isn’t the best kiss, coffee and morning breath and sloppy, but Locus wants it too badly to care either way. His lips tingle from the pressure of Wash’s mouth on his abused own, but even that ache is sweet.

He drinks in the sight of Wash’s slack and joyous face. He’s still hard, nearly to the point of pain, but he can wait for Washington.

“That was fantastic,” Wash sighs against his cheek, and begins dotting kisses across his face. Locus closes his eyes, leaning in to the affection like a plant into the sun, . He doesn’t notice Wash’s hands have begun to wander until one begins to trace the inside seam of his pants, teasing up towards the straining bulge.

“Your turn, big guy,” Wash purrs against his lips. Locus hisses as his fingers ghost over him, fighting the urge to thrust into his hand. “How do you want it?”

“Just,” he licks his lips, struggling to catch his breath. He isn’t going to last, has been too keyed up for too long. “Keep talking.”

Wash hums and kisses him then, makes quick work of his button and fly. In the length of a breath he has him out, pumping his fist along Locus’s length. He’s so hard, hard and leaking for an eternity already, erection flushed dark in Wash’s hand. He twists along the head just the way he knows Locus likes, over and over until the breath punches out of him and he lets his head drop to Wash’s shoulder.

“By then he’d be begging for you to fuck him,” Wash whispers in his ear, and Locus buries his face against Wash’s neck. “He loves being opened up, he’d want your big, thick fingers deep. He’d want you to fingerfuck him with the gloves on, stretching him wide around the leather for your cock.

“I know you,” Wash croons. “You’d put him on top first, let him ride you.”

Locus muffles the needy whine that slips out of him against Wash’s skin, nods frantically. Wash is right. He would. He wants that, to watch Lavernius Tucker’s face as he grinds his hips down, working himself on Locus’s cock and grinning that wicked, delighted grin of his as he did his best to make them both lose their minds.

“He’d ride you hard,” Wash continues, “He’d bounce in your lap while you guided him with your hands spread across his hips. He wouldn’t have let you take the gloves off, the leather’d be all slick and tacky from lube and spit. How would you finish him, Locus? Get him on his hands and knees so you can fuck him deep the way he likes, jerk him off until he’s sobbing and begging you to let him come?”

Locus comes embarrassingly fast only a few moments later, spilling all over Wash’s fist. Wash works him through it, other hand stroking gentle in his hair. They stay there, curled together on the floor until Locus has stopped trembling and can lift his head from Wash’s shoulder for a kiss.

“You will ruin me one day,” Locus murmurs against his lips, but there's no resentment in his tone. He's rather looking forward to it. Even if Wash does look entirely too smug.

“Fuck-me gloves.” He stamps a kiss against Locus’s lips and then rises, looking around for something to clean them with.

“Not these,” Locus insists. “These are my favorite gloves.”

The sound of running water fills the kitchen, Wash rinsing his hands.  Locus frowns, considering.

“I will buy a second pair.”

Wash laughs and comes over to kiss him again. Locus begrudgingly accepts, unbrushed coffee breath and all.

 

*

 

After they’ve gotten cleaned up, Wash drags him into the living room to resume their conversation. They curl up on the couch together, a cup of hot coffee for Locus while Wash reclines back against his chest, sipping his own lukewarm one, the animal.

“I don't know how I should approach him,” Locus admits. “I had hoped he might take the lead. Or that you might have some advice.”

“I don’t know,” Wash shrugs, unapologetically unhelpful. “How did you end up dating me?”

“Don't ask me that,” Locus snaps. “You know I don't know the answer.”

“Look,” Wash says, turning to face him. “Tucker is one of the bravest people I know. But he’s also one of the best at denial. He will deny deny deny there is a problem until the cows come home, avoid the problem, dance away from the problem and flat out run away from the problem.”

Locus hmphs.

“So I’m a problem, now.”

“No.” Wash says, rolling his eyes at him. He takes a long drink from his awful coffee. “The problem is, for some reason, Tucker thinks that he’s not allowed to, or not supposed to, or _shouldn’t_ want you. That’s the problem you’ve got to find a way to fix.”

“And you aren’t going to help me at all.” Locus would cross his arms at him, except Wash is on top of him and kind of in the way.

“I mean, I can try to help you figure out what the problem _is_ ,” Wash concedes. “But you two should probably figure out the rest by yourselves.”

Locus concedes the point. There is one thing, however, he refuses to let go of.

“I’m bringing my spare french press over here.”

“You know I won’t use it.”

“It’s not for you, it’s for _me._ ”


End file.
